Home Gym
by Bainaku
Summary: Michiru is such a pervert.


**Warning: **This story involves two women together. If you're not fond of such things, you might not like this. There's also some innuendo here and a bit of strong language too, so proceed with caution, ye wee innocent underage readers. I'm not responsible for searing out your retinas—though I would be honored if you'd grant me the privilege.

**Commentary: **This is for all of you who wanted more fun stuff from me, though I'd like to especially dedicate this to **imjce**, because you're hilarious and delightful and I love finding messages from you in my inbox. You light up my mornings, darlin'!

I'll probably post more shorts similar to this one, so if you all like it, please let me know and give me suggestions for others!

As always, I hope you enjoy reading this as much as I enjoyed writing it.

**Disclaimer: **I do not own the BSSM franchise. It belongs to the goddess Takeuchi Naoko.

* * *

**HOME GYM**

Haruka never quite understood why Michiru wanted the treadmill so badly.

First off, it was expensive. They were both rich, true, and they both had bouillon taste when it came to material goods, sure—but the damn thing was nearly three hundred thousand yen. They went in on it together, Haruka with a flash of plastic and Michiru in the graceful sketch of a pen across an embossed check, and the quiet _cha-ching _of a sports drink endorsement rang in the blonde soldier's head. She wasn't a romantic—not really—but she was pretty sure couples were supposed to make their first joint purchases on furniture. Beds, for instance. Theirs was antique brass and made even the softest, sweetest sex sound like a thresher going over a herd of cats. Michiru claimed it provided atmosphere. Haruka thought it provided something, all right, and pitied their neighbors, though admittedly not enough to quit using the bed. She would have gladly passed over her platinum card had Michiru shown interest in a newer, quieter, more private model. But no! Her lover wanted _exercise _equipment.

Heavy, awkward exercise equipment. Since the elevator lacked room for two people _and _the packaged paraphernalia, Haruka was expected to deal with getting the contraption up to their apartment herself once it arrived. The delivery company left it sitting in their building's lobby in multiple enormous boxes, and she spent the better part of an afternoon maneuvering them across that lobby, into the lift, and finally down the hall to their flat. She finished in time for dinner, though only just, and ate the meal Michiru prepared for them with trembling, exhausted fingers, her body covered in a fine sheen of sweat. Though she possessed the seismic strength to break open mountains and dig mile-deep furrows in the earth, she wasn't made entirely of muscle, and she was pretty sure each piece of the goddamned treadmill weighed at least ninety kilos.

Further complications: enter _assembly required_. The thing had over five hundred separate parts, none of which looked remotely like they fit together, and Haruka had them strewn in a hurricane across their sunroom within ten frustration-filled minutes. She felt certain that if she could put together the engine of a Ferrari, a treadmill should pose no problem for her. "You should read the directions," Michiru told her when she brought her lover a glass of water. "Or let me help you. I'm sure we could figure it out toge—"

"It's personal," Haruka insisted, and it was, and because Michiru either implicitly understood her lover's compulsions or had the patience of a saint, she left her to her own devices.

For a few hours.

"Haruka," she murmured sleepily from the sunroom doorway at 2 AM, "come to bed."

"I'm almost finished," Haruka replied. Sitting crosslegged in the middle of the floor, she fit another screw haphazardly into a slot and sat back to admire her abomination. It stood on its own for approximately three seconds, a hideous black alchemic skeleton of jutting mechanics and bristling gears. It then toppled into ruin across Haruka's lap and the sunroom floor. Tiny washers and bolts and rivets went the way of the vents; still more rolled beneath furniture.

Haruka looked up at her partner.

Michiru merely lifted her hands, palms out, and went back to bed alone.

Really, it begged the question: why the hell did they need a treadmill? Haruka had to ask herself this over and over. They were fit! They were athletic! Michiru swam every day, usually for several hours, and had the stamina of a freight train and the legs of a goddess. Her blonde counterpart utilized the wealth of nearby parks and plazas for her daily jogs, rain or shine, sleet or snow, hell or high water. She could crack open an almond with her thighs if necessary, or strike a match on a sculpted flank. Not to mention they often spent their nights running around the city—across its skyscrapers, byways, bridges, back alleys—in heels, for God's sake. Who needed a treadmill when the threat of a new apocalypse rolled in every season?

Michiru, Michiru, Michiru.

A grudging peek at the instruction manual and several hours later, Haruka finished piecing the machine together. She gave the final product a ginger shake. It stayed upright. She turned it on too and gazed in satisfaction down at the slow-moving black conveyor belt. Enemy conquered, she made to unplug it—and stopped.

She thought she should probably test it first.

She stepped carefully onto the belt and walked in place for a minute or so, pace sedate. She had to admit that she admired the machine's smooth, effortless _whmmmm_ and the steady platform it provided her. Despite the thread of gold creeping along the horizon outside and the tug of fatigue at her joints, she upped the treadmill's incline and speed considerably. Perspiration winked beneath her bangs; her socked feet made soft _tmp-tmp _sounds over the winding strap. She was nearly lost to the rhythm when she looked up and saw Michiru in the sunroom's doorway again, her arms folded, her gaze a simmering marine kettle of intrigue.

"Michiru! Come try this!" Haruka exulted. "It's really cool! It has all these different modes and—"

"Why don't you show me?" Michiru suggested. She tipped her head and smiled at her partner, the expression something like the sun coming up. "You worked so hard. I'd like to see."

Beaming, the great conqueror of do-it-yourself assembly went through each individual setting for Michiru. She was delighted at the other woman's sincere attention, and apparently Michiru felt impressed enough with her capabilities that she requested several repeat performances on Haruka's part. By the time they had thoroughly explored the machine's capacity together, the taller woman was exhilaratingly exhausted and Michiru, despite having not yet set foot on the treadmill, wore a faint cape of heady pink about her nose and cheeks. Haruka chalked it up to pure feminine admiration.

The dark-haired soldier shooed her triumphant lover off to a short shower and bed. When she was finally alone in the room with the treadmill, Michiru unplugged it, imagined the bouncing swells of her partner's breasts now readily available at the push of a button, and said three words:

"Money well spent."


End file.
